Clare and Present Danger

***Note to readers*** This story is meant to build slowly. Chapter one has no sex, only sexual tension. Stick with me, though. I'll be adding other chapters that will make it worthwhile. Many thanks--YogaVixen.

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"Being a woman is a terribly difficult task since it consists principally in dealing with men."

--Joseph Conrad.

You're half-sitting half-leaning on the arm of a chair, bored and feeling the beer in your hand slowly warming. You'd tried to resist the enthusiastic urgings of Amy, your perky roommate, but she'd worn you down with her pleas for moral support and insistence that, "The absolutely hottest men will be at this party, Clare."

And there are hot men here. Jocks and various fraternity guys strut around, throwing back beer and watching the asses of the half-dressed women drunk enough to dance to the persistently playing hip-hop music. Despite Amy's suggestions, you're clothed in your typical t-shirt and jeans, and your ass has been firmly planted for half-an-hour. The men do look hot, but you know the attraction fizzles as soon as they open their mouths. You know they're not stupid, but they seem so generic and dull. You sigh, wishing to be home in bed reading.

You sip your beer as Amy, clever and sparky, approaches on the arm of her desired conquest. You can't resist smiling at her--envying her, even--she is full of charm as she tells you that she's leaving with what's-his-name. You're not at all charming, but before you can worry about how you're getting home, what's-his-name's friend steps from behind the couple. Amy introduces you to Nick who shakes your hand in a perfunctory manner, and then steps to the side. She hugs you before she walks away, quickly whispering, "He's single...you can thank me later."

No thanks will be necessary. You'd noticed the quickly arrogant once-over Nick had given you, and his instant dismissal set your teeth on edge. He's one of those men, you decide, who can't be bothered to look at women properly...who, no doubt, thinks of women as objects for his own pleasure...who probably can't even bring a woman to orgasm. You smile wickedly at his imagined lack of ability.

"I'll bet you're a Women's Studies major," he says dryly.

"Excuse me?" Raising one eyebrow, you turn to look at him. Suddenly, you realize he'd knowingly watched you while you internally catalogued his faults. You feel yourself begin to blush, and it irritates you.

"Women's Studies. You know feminist lit., female superiority, fish without bicycles. All that drivel." He's watching you closely as he speaks, and then casually drinking from the glass in his left hand without dropping his gaze.

You feel yourself stiffen, the fine hair at the back of your neck lifting. You rise from the arm of the chair, deliberately standing as tall as your 5'4" frame will allow. Although you try to appear nonchalant, you are annoyed. Very annoyed.

"It's Psychology, actually, Nick," you say dryly, saying his name with a clipped edge. It would only boost his ego to know that you're minoring in Women's Studies.

"Ha!" he gives a short barking laugh, "A predictably soft science." His eyes roam over your face.

Unbeknownst to you, anger has made your lips and cheeks red. Your eyes dangerously sparkle behind your glasses, and the quick shake of your head makes your ponytail snap. You want to stamp your heel onto his toes, to kick his shins, puncture his colossal ego, and as you desperately search for a suitably apt retort...something to really put him in his place, he interrupts with,

"But you are a feminist, aren't you Clare?"

Your name slips from his lips like a long, slow drizzle of honey. He is looking right into your eyes. You boldly look back and notice that his are a deep brown--not a soft, warm brown like the eyes of an irresistible puppy, but the hot deep nearly-black of espresso. Your bravado drains away. You feel scorched, and yet the fine hairs all over your body stiffen and you are covered in goosebumps. You swallow, unable to reply.

But he doesn't need you to speak.

He leans toward you, his right hand reaching around your hip, his eyes breaking from yours as he moves his mouth next to your left ear, "You do know, Clare, that a feminist is only a woman who hasn't been laid properly."

Your head snaps back as you mentally recoil from the insulting idea. But anger, or excitement, or proximity hardens your nipples, and they achingly strain against your bra. You decide it's anger, and snap, "Spoken like a man who can't make a woman orgasm." You deliberately look into his eyes again.

His face is impassive except for the eyes that sparkle with laughter before he looks down to your breasts. The stiff tips are evident beneath your t-shirt. His fingers flex around your hip. You pinken as he looks up saying, "Don't worry, Clare, I'll make you cum." And the last word moves through your body like a subtle wave of water. He finishes his drink with one long swallow.

You feel yourself inwardly tilt, as if you were the one drinking. You pull away, shaking your head to dispell the rushing images--you moaning as his fingers move in you...you lifting your hips as his tongue slides over your clit...you raising your arms overhead, breasts lifting as you kneel over him, his cock pressing deep into... His hand slides from your hip as you step back, deciding you're furious and he's an asshole. Your inner thighs contract, your low belly tightening. He's just a typical horny college guy on the make. But you're not furious, you're overwhelmed and completely enthralled. Your hip still feels the firm pressure of his strong hand. You shake your head again. He's all ego. There is no way he's taking you home. Absolutely not.

"Don't worry," you begin haughtily, "You don't need to take--"

Before you can finish, he grabs your hand and begins walking you to the door. "I'm walking you home, Clare," he says firmly, "I told Amy you'd be safe with me." He gives you a wicked sideglance.

You stop, turn for a moment, and really look at him. Tall, broad-shouldered, a swimmer's body, or a cyclist's. Floppy, fashionably unkempt brown hair, square jaw, full lower lip, a long strong throat that smelled of sandalwood and musk... Average, you firmly decide, slamming the door on any other thoughts. Like a million other college men. Average, generic, dull, and completely harmless.

"Alright," you agree, shrugging your shoulders and snapping your ponytail, "It's not like it's a long walk."